


Hellblazer: Venus of the Hardsell

by DCPrime



Category: DCU (Comics), Hellblazer, Hellblazer & Related Fandoms, Vertigo (Comics), Zatanna (Comics)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Gen, Mystery, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1678502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DCPrime/pseuds/DCPrime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the DC PRIME Universe: In every generation, the world has feared monsters. They've feared every kind of monster, whether supernatural, extra-terrestrial or even human monsters. But what happens when everybody loves their monsters? What happens when everybody wants to BE a monster? Answer: Utter chaos, and too much for even John Constantine to handle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Hellblazer #1**

**"To get vamped in Malvern" by JoeyJoell**

* * *

Thomas dances in a darkly lit club where minors sip at large pints of lager. The teenagers dance, holding glow-sticks up to the ceiling while a nauseating sound plays in the background, making a deaf and discreet place for drug dealers to sweep in like snakes. He then goes to sit at the bar, forcing down a glass of vodka, trying to block out the smell of urine that extends through the club. A young girl runs to sit next to him, holding a large cocktail, obviously drunk. She staggers a bit but finally sits down, putting her arm around him.

Girl: What can I do for you?

Thomas: What?

Girl: Well, you're obviously here for something.

She rubs her hand on his arm and grabs him. He looks awkward.

Thomas: Got any sparkly V?

Girl: You asked the right gal. Wait here, mate.

She struggles to get back up but does eventually, leaving for a couple of minutes and then bringing back two more girls and a man, dressed in a long overcoat and suit.

Girl: This is Vlad, he'll fix you up.

Vlad: So, you request the bloody neck?

Thomas: Uh... yes.

Vlad leads Thomas out of the pub into the cold British winter, where no snow drops but the cold still pierces at your skin. The girls follow, rubbing their arms and giggling, they try to flirt with Vlad for a minute but with a stare they stop. They keep walking until they reach a run-down building, rats scurry throughout and people, mostly teenagers, sit in tattered chairs, looking at Vlad and the teens.

Man: Hey! Why do they get to skip the line!?

Vlad leads them into a room where a bloody woman sits, snarling, her face hiding behind her red hair.

Vlad: Drusilla.

Drusilla moves her hair from her face, edges towards the teens and...

John Constantine sits back in a late-night train to Malvern, his head tucked back into his infinitely long trench-coat, his face red. The passengers range from unsettled to sleeping, a seemingly single mother trying to keep control of her toddlers, while the rest struggle to sleep. Workers frequently pass, offering drinks and food.

John Narration:  
I need one, now. Can't smoke on a train, bus stop... anywhere. I NEED it. Next you won't be able to smoke on Earth, you'll have to move to some fucking hell dimension to even light one up.

John puts his head in his hands, tired.

John Narration:  
The stench of piss stretches through the damn train, and the howls of toddlers echo, I can't sleep. The seats are uncomfortable, pulled and tugged at until being torn by the infinite children that can't keep their hands to themselves. It's annoying as hell, especially at night. Have a meeting with some old bat whose grandson's got himself bit, she's got him locked in the shed. Never underestimate your Nan with her pots n' pans. Should make a quick buck. Quick de-vampirism.

John steps out of the Train-Station, to be instantly showered with water. He stands on the doorstep of a quiet village, with a booming nightclub in the center, towering over the other buildings and letting out a neon light and a terrible racket. John swiftly pulls out a cigarette, lights it and puts it in his mouth.

John Narration:  
...and I'm okay.

An old man strolls past, holding his umbrella and walking his dog.

Man: Terrible, ain't it?

John: Sorry?

Man: That bloody nightclub.

John: I'm not from around here, mate.

Man: Put a damn nightclub in a month ago, it's like a drug swarm for those kids.

John: Hmph, really?

Man: Yeah, not to mention it makes one hell of a racket.

John: Tell me about it, mate.

The man walks past, going on with his night. John heads to an inn, which glows in the dark village night. A large eye-catching sign lies on the front that says 'soundproofed'. John walks inside.

John Narration:  
Should do for the night. Solve the bloody neck and then I'm out of this damn village.

John opens the door, it creaks, a lady sits across from him, writing something behind a desk. The light is golden, like most of the colours in the village. A fireplace lies to the side of him, two chairs sitting next to it.

John: Excuse me? A room. Uh, one bedroom.

John is shown to his room and stands in it. The booming noise of the nightclub has found its way into the room, the vibrations almost being felt. The bright neon lights of the nightclub leap through the window, creating light in the darkness. John turns the light on.

John Narration:  
Lies.

John sits on his bed, his head in his hands, removing his trench-coat and tossing it.

John Narration:  
Y'know when you fell like if you died right now, you wouldn't care. You're just so bored with life that you just want to roll over and die?

John drops and lies on the bed, tired.

John Narration:  
The average folk have it easy. Goin' about with their boring lives, brushing their teeth. The people that want adventure, the people that want to do something amazing. Don't. It'll make your life HELL. Because after the war. After what happened. Everything seems dull to me. It's not shell shock or anything. Fighting regular demons just isn't fun to me anymore. I just need a few entities from hell in my life.

The night fades away and the day creeps into the sky, John on his feet instantly. He swiftly pulls on his trench-coat, putting it on. He leaves the money on the desk, leaving a note stating which room he stayed in. In seconds he is at his client's house, smoking three cigarettes on the way.

John Narration:  
Got to get this over with.

John knocks on the door, an old woman opens it, her eyes bloodshot, his face pale. She stands in her nightgown, holding a rushed cup of tea.

Woman: Are you Mr. Constantine?

John: Yep.

Woman: He's in the shed.

The woman walks John through her house, which is a battlefield that was destroyed by a volcano. The house definitely shows signs of a struggle, blood on the walls, floors and ceiling. Even a disembodied finger lying on the floor.

John: You cut off his bloody finger?

Woman: It came out of his mouth after I hit 'im.

They go through the back door, where a trail of blood lies from the back door to the shed. The shed is covered with blood, a red handprint on the side of the door. The shed is constantly rocking, it being locked from the outside.

John: What's his name?

Woman: Thomas.

John: Hey, Tommy boy!

John Narration:  
The smell of a decomposing corpse soars from the shed. It was a rushed job.

Thomas: Let me out!

Woman: You can cure him?

John: Depends. How long ago was this?

Woman: Around three days ago.

John: Alright. It's gonna be hard, but I think I can do it.

John Narration:  
You seed it.

John puts a cigarette in his mouth and lights it, he puts his hand on the shed.

John: At this rate, I'm going to have to charge extra. It's going to be hard to kill his sire.

John Narration:  
...and then you con her for her money.

Woman: Sire?

John: The lovely young vampire that turned him. Kill his sire and then the victims are released. Well, that's how it works with certain breeds of vampire.

Woman: It's that nightclub up the road. All the kids are going there. All of the kids are coming home with the bloody neck. Old Bessie down the road's lad came home and bit off her hand. Oh, and Madge, she lives across from me, her daughter ripped off her...

John: The nightclub?

Woman: Yeah?

John: Aren't they under-aged?

Woman: That won't stop 'em.

That night, John heads to the beacon of light that is the nightclub, a cigarette in his mouth. The booming sound pierces his ears as the mindless teenagers dance to the nonsense.

John Narration:  
Well, my age shows. I know I was like this when I was younger, jumping onto the next bandwagon that rode past and calling myself unique and different from the crowd. Sticking any old needle into my ass.  
John sits at the bar, smoking his cigarette as a young girl runs to sit next to him, ordering a cocktail and sipping at it.

Girl: Brave.

John: Why?

The girl points to a tattered but still readable sign on the wall that says, "No Smoking".

John: Can't smoke anywhere these days.

Girl: Who are you with?

John: Nobody. Just sittin' here on my own.

Girl: Same. Looking for Vlad.

John: Me... too...

John Narration:  
Vlad? Really? It's one of THOSE things, isn't it?

Girl: What, you want to get vamped?

John Narration:  
Some arsehole calling himself Vlad sucking the necks of dumb-ass kids.

Girl: You got your money?

John Narration:  
Well, that's new.

John: Yeah, I think. How much is it, again?

Girl: Fifty.

John Narration:  
Fifty? I can walk into any dark alley and get my neck sucked for free.

Vlad approaches the two, cloaked and silent. His face pale, his eyes dark. A smile on his face.

Girl: Are you Vlad?

John gets ready to pull out his stake from his coat until he notices some blotches on Vlad's face.

John Narration:  
Makeup.

Vlad: Yes.

Girl: We were hoping you'd give us some... uh... Sparkly V.

Vlad: Of course, come with me.

John Narration:  
Fuck, he's not a vampire. Likes to keep his hands clean, I see. I miss the dark alley.

Vlad walks John and the girl out of the nightclub, into the cold night. The hurricane of noise extends to outside of the club. They trudge through the chilling wind until they reach the same run-down building as earlier. It's a slow business night, less people sit in the tattered chairs, waiting to become vampires. Vlad, John and the girl walk into the room, it's darkly lit and Drusilla sits in the corner, licking blood from the floor.

Vlad: Drusilla!

The girl cowers behind John, he stands there, smoking a cigarette, unafraid. John kicks Vlad in the chest, knocking him to a wall, John quickly following it up with a hard punch to the face, knocking out a few teeth.

Girl: What the hell are you doing!?

John: Don't worry, luv.

Vlad pulls out a knife from his scabbard, jabbing at John who blocks and punches Vlad, knocking him to the floor.

John: I'm a professional. Well, sort of.

Drusilla breaks from her chain, leaping onto John, blood raining from the clouds in her mouth. She topples him over, her face reaching for his neck. John reaches for his stake, Drusilla notices, smashing his hand against the hard stone floor and disarming him. The girl runs from the room, leaving the building as John grabs Drusilla's neck, trying to push her away. Drusilla manages to bite John, John trying to keep the pain in.

Quickly, John bends his legs in and kicks Drusilla away, sending her back. He runs, lifting his stake and aiming for the heart, but missing slightly, putting the stake somewhere in her chest. Following this up, he punches her three times, and then pushes her against the wall, his arm against her neck.

He pulls the stake from her chest and makes sure of the heart, stabbing her. She combusts into flames after falling into a pile of ash. John drops and sits, covered in blood. He notices Vlad, cowered in the corner, a phone in his hand.

Vlad: It's... it's... he's here. It's the one you told me about!  
Blonde hair, trench-coat! He killed Drusilla! Send someone, quick!

John lifts Vlad and throws him to the other side of the room. Vlad drops the phone, it cracks against the floor. John walks to the phone, picks it up and puts it to his ear.

John: Who the hell are you!?

The call is ended. John throws it against the floor. Yelling.

John: Who were you were talking to!?

Vlad: Oh god! Please don't! I just wanted to get a quick...!

John: Yeah, I get it! You're not a vampire, whatever. Tell me who it was!

Vlad: Please! Okay... okay... it was my boss, the distributor. I told him you were here!

John: You said he told you about me!

Vlad: Yes! Yes! He knows you! He said you fought in some war! Please, I just needed money!

Five men materialize in front of the train station in a dark cloud of smoke. They wear suits with gun holsters on their waists.  
One of the men touches his earpiece.

Man: Yes, we're here.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED—**


	2. The Missing Bullets

John Narration: No time to tend to my injuries

John frantically packs his belongings in a bag, attaching a leather holster to his waist and putting a large revolver in it. He paces and runs in his room in the inn, sweat raining from his forehead, blood draining from his nose. 

John Narration: On the road again. Just like regular old me. Always getting myself intro trouble, always getting myself drafted into a war that I have no stake in. No. Don't mention that damn war.

John lifts his bag and puts it on his shoulder, but trips over himself and falls onto the floor, sitting against the bed.

John: Fuck, FUCK! 

John Narration: Pull yourself together, you coward. No point pulling out now.

Meanwhile, at the local police station, Detective Angel Summers is escorted through an alert workplace, where countless youngsters are also escorted. But Summers isn't there to be arrested, not to be charged. Summers is escorted through each floor, the building becoming less excited as they walk through each floor. They ultimately reach an office, where the Chief Inspector sits, slurping at a cup of coffee. Summers sits across from the Chief Inspector, who smiles as he arrives.

Summers: This better be good. Have you ever been on the late night train?

Chief Inspector: Too many times.

Summers: So, why am I here? You've taken me all the way from London to Malvern for a reason, haven't you?

Chief Inspector: Yes, I have.

Summers: So... what is it?

Chief Inspector: Well, recently we've had a nightclub built around here. Amazing sound, bit too amazing.

Summers: Yeah, cut to it.

Chief Inspector: Anyway, ever since we've had that nightclub of insomnia and wonder, the kids have been coming home with the old Nosferatu. So I made some calls and found out that you've been looking into the same thing back in old London.

Summers: But the Chief Inspector... the OTHER Chief Inspector said that it was too far fetched. Case closed.

Chief Inspector: Then I told him that we live in a world where a man has the powers of a god but can't put his underpants under his trousers. Case reopened.

Summers: So you brought me all the way over here to tell me that you told him that.

Chief Inspector: No, not just that. Y'see we found the "dealer's" hideout, we found him unconscious, beaten and a pile of ash lying next to him, with a stake in it. 

Summers: So, what d'you think?

Chief Inspector: We found this lovely young girl who said that a bloke she met tried to kill the dealer and a vampire. We tracked the guy down and his name is "John Constantine", he's just some con-man magician. But we traced further back and we found he used to work for a string of worldwide occult nightclubs.

Summers: So you think Constantine is some sort of magic mob-enforcer?

Chief Inspector: Yes, and I'm giving you the honours of having a little chat with him.

John still sits against his bed, his head in his hands. A knock is heard at the door. John pulls out his gun, holding it upwards as he looks through the peephole. Another knock is heard. John looks through and sees a police officer standing at the door. He opens.

Police Officer: Are you a Mister "John Constantine"?

John: Yes?

Police Officer: I'm going to have to ask you to come to the station.

The enforcers head to the inn, staring at the "soundproofed" sign on the front of the door. They all follow each other, with the same blank expression on their faces. They reach for the door, locked. Bang. Bang. The door is knocked down as they head in, the lights still on in the main floor. 

The men draw their guns, getting ready to storm the inn as they raise them. The ground floor is empty, so they head upstairs, following after each other. They all attach silencers to their guns in sync and one of them shoots out the light, the golden glow depleting. They are all assigned to their own rooms, each knocking down the door and storming the area. All rooms except one are populated, they each shoot the people in their assigned room, blood splattering everywhere but not enough so that they cannot identify their victims. 

They observe the bodies, scanning for John Constantine. Meeting up in the lobby, they stare at each other. After creeping down the stairs, they reach the owner's desk, where her book lies. They search through, finding John Constantine's name, he had checked in the night earlier. They then leave the inn. 

John sits in a questioning room, his hands spread out on the table, his head in his hands. Detective Summers opens the door, walking to sit with John at the table.

John: Just because I'm curious, can I smoke here?

Summers: No.

John: Bloody government.

Summers: What, do you want to smoke?

John: Would I ask you if I didn't?

Summers: Hmph

Summers pulls a cigarette from a case and passes it to John, he then passes him a lighter.

John: Won't you get a fine for this or something?

Summers: Why would I get a fine?

John: Because that's how the law works, mate.

Summers: I KNOW how the law works.

John: Aren't you recording this or something?

Summers: Who says I'm recording?

John: So, why am I here?

Summers: Don't you know that already? 

John: No, not really.

Summers: So, John... why did you come to Malvern?

John: The hills.

Summers: We're quite far away from the hills.

John: It'll be a nice trek getting there.

Summers: Really, you're not good at this.

John: You're not either. Now, cut to the chase and tell me why I'm here.

At the nightclub, the enforcers hunt for John Constantine. Their sunglasses reflecting in the bright glow. They weave through the countless people, throwing away their problems as they dance to the nauseating sound. The nightclub is darkly lit but bright at the same time, the contrast burning the eyes. The enforcers head to the bar, where a girl sits, sipping at a cocktail. 

Enforcer: Where is Vlad?

Girl: You're gonna have to wait, man.

The enforcers all pull their guns on her in sync. A face of drunken terror appears on her face.

Girl: He takes 'em to some run down building down the streets! Please, don't!

The bouncer notices the enforcers, heading over to them, putting his hand on the shoulder of one of them. The enforcers turn to him.

Bouncer: I'm going to have to ask you to leave.

The enforcers pull their guns on him, their faces blank.

Bouncer: Ben! Call the police!

The enforcers fire, the bouncer falling to the ground in a large explosion of blood and flesh. He lies in a puddle of blood, and the previously indifferent and oblivious drunks turn to notice the tragedy around them, some screaming and running, while others stop to observe. The enforcers survey their surroundings and count how many people saw them shoot the bouncer. 

The enforcers look to each other and nod in sync. They then form a circle. A firing squad. They all fire, an explosion of blood and death in every corner, in every inch of the nightclub. Each shot taken with precision, with thought. The adults, the teenagers, the bar-men, the bouncers, all shot. The silencers stop the chaos from escaping the nightclub. 

Only the screams slightly notify the people who stand outside the carnage, although, the screams are a regular occurrence. Blam. Blam. Blam. The blood flies, making it impossible to leave without even some blood splatter staining your clothes. They keep firing, nobody there to help, nobody there to save them. The enforcers stop to scan the room, no signs of life. They fix their ties then wipe some blood from their faces while leaving the nightclub.

John and Detective Summers still sit in the questioning room.

Summers: Recently we've had some little problems with a new type of drug.

John: Centuries old, actually. Oh, and, it's not a drug.

Summers: A recently popularized type of demonic state, known as vampirism, we've also encountered things like zombies and werewolves. They're all being sold like drugs. The thing all of these cases have in common are nightclubs. I understand you used to work for a string of nightclubs?

John: Well, the owner really. Well... occasionally.

Summers: But you put in your...

John: I put it on there because I was embarrassed of being unemployed, but yeah I did a job or two.

Summers: Anyway, we tracked down a dealer and he's in custody, but he and a young lady have both identified you. 

John: Yeah, so what're you saying, mate?

Summers: Maybe Eugene crossed a line. Maybe the owner sent you to soften...

John: I couldn't have been sent by the owner, he's dead. 

Besides, he hated me by the end of his life, he was a bit of an ass, really.

Summers: Alright. But that doesn't explain why you beat up the dealer.

John: Okay. This might sound far fetched.

Summers: We live in a world where men dress up in spandex and fight crime.

John: Well, some old bat hired me to de-vamp her grandson.

Summers: What does that have to do with the dealer?

John: To de-vamp someone, you need to stake the kid that turned them.

Summers: That explains the pile of ash. 

John: Yeah, so I went there, killed the bitch and packed my bags.

The Chief Inspector bursts through the door, tired and scared.

Chief Inspector: Summers, you'd better get down to the nightclub.

Summers: What is it?

Chief Inspector: It's a bloody massacre!

The Enforcers approach Vlad's dealing building, noticing police cars parked outside and police tape on the door. A forensics team follow each other out of the building, The Enforcers waiting until they leave to enter the building.

They cut the tape, walking into the building and reaching the dealing room. A police officer guards the door, the enforcers all shooting her, a carnival of blood exploding from her body. They open the door, a group of police officers converse, The Enforcers almost instinctively shoot and kill all but one of them, as they approach the survivor.

Enforcer: Where is Vlad?

Officer: At... at the station. Please, don't...

The Enforcer shoots him in the head, killing him.

John sits in the interrogation room, still smoking at the pack of cigarettes Summers left.

John Narration:

The smoke rises through my nose and I realize that they'll be on their way here. Yes, they'll be here. Swing low, sweet chariot. I wonder what my chariot will look like. Hell-hounds drag it down a hellish road, the chariot a rocking mess of wood and misshapen gold, I'm taken home. No. No, with my luck, I'll be taken to heaven. Angels come forth to carry me down a smooth and easy road.

The thing is, they don't care who they take to heaven. The amount of sins I've done and I'll still probably go to heaven and have coffee with Stalin. Maybe have a bit of fun with Genghis Khan. Bingo night with good old Adolf. I wouldn't be surprised if the bloody devil himself was hanging out there. I should have died in the war. I should've just ran out into the battlefield and die, maybe my soul eaten by a bloodthirsty death-knight, maybe disintegrated by an angry warlord with a wand he picked up off the floor. Should've just skipped to the good part.

Summers arrives at the nightclub massacre, where the walls are soaked in blood and the floor is flooded with bodies without souls. The music is silenced, the lights staying the same colour, the rabid atmosphere gone. Summers steps around the bodies, trying not to tamper with any evidence. The Chief Inspector stands with him, his hands in his pockets. 

Summers: Anything... supernatural?

Chief Inspector: Yes, the bodies.

Summers: The bodies?

Chief Inspector: From what forensics could gather, we found that the victims were killed by a gun. Well, in the wounds, we found no bullets.

 Summers: Did they take them out?

Chief Inspector: Forensics found no tampering with the bodies, and with the footage we have we know that they left after killing these people.

The Chief Inspector gets a phone-call. he puts the phone to his ear.

Chief Inspector: Yep.

Detective (PHONE): There's been a massacre at the Paradise Inn. Everybody killed in their sleep.

Summers: Paradise Inn... that's where Constantine was staying.

Chief Inspector: You think they were hunting Constantine?

Summers: It adds up, the nightclub, the inn, the missing bullets. 

Chief Inspector: Alright, where d'you think they're headed next?

The Chief Inspector's phone rings.

Chief Inpsector: Oh, bloody hell.

He picks it up and puts it to his ear.

Chief Inspector: What!? Okay, send Detective Masters and his team.

Summers: What?

Chief Inspector: They went to Vlad's place.

Summers: Oh, crap. 

Chief Inspector: What is it?

Summers: The inn, the nightclub, the dealing house... where d'you think they're going now?

Chief Inspector: Oh, god. The station.

The Enforcers materialize in front of the police station, loading their guns and walking inside.

* * *

**TO BE CONTINUED—**


	3. An Old Door Closed

John stands at the steps right outside of Birmingham Central Train Station, a cigarette in hand. He lights it, puts it in his mouth and smiles. People buzz past him as he stands there solitary, smoke rising from his mouth and nose. He straightens his jacket and fixes his tie, blood droplets on his jacket.

John Narration:

So... Birmingham.

* * *

 

**A FEW HOURS EARLIER**

Angel and the Chief Inspector speed through the now quiet streets of a small village in Malvern. They exceed the speed limit, racing to the police station, passing red light to red light. Inside, Angel is sweating, frantically turning the wheel, while the Chief Inspector yells at him.

Angel: Will you just shut up!?

Chief Inspector: Do you know how many fines you're giving me!? This is MY car!

Angel: I'm trying to stop another massacre!

John still sits in the interrogation room, bored. His hands are behind his head and he's smoked the last of his cigarettes to its extent, dropping it to the floor and stamping out the fire. He removes fixes his tie and brushes his hair back, nothing but the mind to entertain him.

John Narration:

Fuck. Have those wankers gotten stuck in traffic or something? Just kill me. NOW. Oh dammit, why won't it END already? Y'know, I could summon God by time they get here, and dy'know how long it takes for God to get his head out of his own ass? Fucking days of praying and praying and praying... just fucking end it.

John looks to his side, a white figure appears and then fades away.

John Narration:

Oh no... not this again.

The figure appears again, but then fades.

John Narration:

The bad thing about being a treacherous ass...

The figure finally appears and stops fading, forming into a white copy of John, it appears a bit younger, around his early 20s.

John Narration:

Your soul catches up with you.

Ghost John: You utter wanker.

John: Piss off.

Ghost John: Is it survivor's guilt or shellshock? You're a bloody mess.

John: Don't remind me.

Ghost John: That's my job, bastard.

John: Maybe you shouldn't be so blunt about it.

Ghost John: What 're you going to do? Narrate your life, describe the setting, tell the paying audience how you're feeling? Ah, maybe it's boredom.

John: Fuck you.

Ghost John: Yeah, it's boredom isn't it? I wouldn't blame you, after being dead and all. Where were you, John?

John: Shut up.

Ghost John: Where were you?

John stays silent.

Ghost John: Oh, I know, Heaven. Among the sinners, the cowards, the traitors that you were shoved in with. You even tricked yourself into thinking it was just a war.

John: It WAS a war.

Ghost John: Don't kid yourself, luv. I'm your conscience. You WERE dead. Your body was kept on ice until the damn thing was over. It may have been hell for others but it was heaven for you.

John: A figurative heaven. You die, sing some satanic shit, that's how you get into a hell dimension, you just have to make sure there's someone to keep your body on ice.

Ghost John: Does it matter? Figurative heaven or not, you were happy there, weren't you?

John: It was hell, figuratively speaking.

Ghost John: I love the fact that you decide to argue with me despite the fact that I'm your conscience. There's no lying with me, I know every detail about you. You're bored with life, John. You even monologued 'bout it, mate.

John: Why the hell are you even here!? To tell me that I'm bored!?

Ghost John: To give you the will to live. Unlike regular people you need a ghost of yourself to appear in front of you to tell you that dying is a bad idea.

John: Maybe it isn't.

Ghost John: Maybe you need a good hobby. Knitting, for example.

John: Knitting, eh? That'd be a good idea if I was a 75 year-old woman.

Ghost John: Eh, close enough.

The Enforcers enter the police station, walking next to each other, they head to the desk and ring a bell. A police officer approaches the desk and sits down.

Police Officer: Can I help you?

Enforcers: We need to see John Constantine.

Police Officer: I'm sorry, but Mr. Constantine is in questioning right now, you'll have to...

One of the Enforcers shoots the officer, the rest of the people in the room escape, the Enforcers turning to shoot them. They all drop dead. They turn and shoot the security camera, it explodes in a fire of electricity as they walk up the stairs to the questioning rooms.

John and Ghost John now sit across from each other, Ghost John smokes a cigarette.

Ghost John: Don't you wish you had one of these right now?

John: Don't rub it in.

An alarm sounds, John puts his feet up on the table, his hands behind his head.

John: My chariot's here.

Ghost John: Fuck-ing HELL! This is DEATH, John. No going back!

John: Yeah, sure, whatever.

Ghost John: I'm not having you let yourself die just because you're fucking bored!

John: Piss off.

Ghost John: Asshole.

Angel and the Chief Inspector arrive at the police station, rushing through the doors to find a pile of dead bodies. Blood soaks the floor and the walls, like wet paint and the two officers take a moment to observe, but then start running up the stairs. The Enforcers pass through the first floor, their bullets riding through the police officers like trains. Angel and the Chief Inspector reach the top of the stairs, but notice the Enforcers and take cover behind the wall, hiding. The Enforcers stop walking, they pause for a second.

Chief Inspector: Oh, screw this.

The Chief Inspector rises from cover and starts firing, hitting one of the Enforcers who bounces back, heals and fires back at him, riddling him with bullets, that disappear on impact. Angel holds his breath, clutching his gun. The Enforcers stare through the corridor, Angel still hiding behind his cover. Angel murmurs under his breath.

Angel: Goddammit...

They stare. They stare. They stare until they continue walking the opposite direction. Angel takes a breath, he stops squeezing his gun and he heads over to the lift. Pressing the "up" button. He gets in.

Angel: What was it, what was it, what was it? Five?

He presses the "floor five" button and he is lifted up to his floor.

Angel: C'mon, c'mon...

After a few moments he reaches his floor, rushing out of the lift as the remaining officers on the fifth floor question him.

Officer: What's going on!?

Angel: Guard the door. NOW.

Two officers run to the door, grabbing a rifle while Angel speeds to the questioning room. He kicks open the door, John is sitting there, talking to himself.

Angel: GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

Ghost John: Go!

John: Nah, mate. My chariot's here.

Angel: What the hell!?

Ghost John: You coward. You fucking coward.

John: I'm not... I'm a...

Ghost John: You're an absolute coward.

John: I'm not a fucking coward!

Angel: Uh... John...?

Ghost John: You, you fucking admit it right now. It was YOUR fucking fault we lost that damn war. YOU didn't want the bloody thing to end!

Angel: John?

John: I'm NOT A FUCKI...

Gunfire is heard and the Enforcers storm the area, shooting the two officers guarding the door as the others try to slow them down, Angel runs into the questioning room, taking cover under the section under the window. John stands up and knocks his chair over. The remaining officers are dead, the enforcers now check one room. After another.

After another. All finding empty rooms until reaching the questioning room where John stands. The Enforcers knock down the door, instantly noticing Angel and shooting him. An Enforcer puts its phone to its ear. The Enforcers pause before shooting John, speaking to someone on the other end of the phone.

Ghost John: Notice anything about those men?

John: They're zombies.

Ghost John: Remember that spell Zat taught you?

John: Zat. Oh fuck me.

Ghost John: Someone you haven't let die.

John: Don't fucking try to...

Ghost John: Don't, just don't argue. What about Chas?

John: I couldn't care less about Chas.

Ghost John: Okay, bad example. Gemma, Cheryl... just... just think about them as you go. They'd like that.

John: Dammit. I... I remember the spell.

Ghost John: Not as easy as you thought it would be?

John: Tor ni lleh srekcufrehtom.

The Enforcers freeze, their skin becoming pale like stone. They drop the phone, the call still going. Their flesh rots and they fall flat on their faces, having being reduced to mere skeletons.

Ghost John: Wow, the first time I've seen John Constantine give a shit about others.

Angel: Fucking shot me in the leg. Pardon my French.

John: Zombies were never good shots.

Angel: Tell that to the poor bastards downstairs... who were you talking to, anyway?

John: The little piece of soul I have.

?: Oh, John...

John: What? No. It...

John picks up the phone, he puts it to his ear.

John: Who the hell is this?

?: Just the master planner behind all of this.

John: No...

?: ...and you thought you could kill me?

John: I didn't fucking kill you!

?: But you left me for dead, didn't you, John?

John: No... Midnite!?

Midnite: You left me to be eaten by a pack of hellhounds.

John: You sent your men to kill me.

Midnite: On the contrary, old friend, they came to send you an invitation.

John: Where?

Midnite: Birmingham, where I work.

John: Where you run a drug empire built on demonic states, genius, I suppose.

Midnite: It's been a while since I've had a good game of cat and mouse. You see, John, the war has changed us both. When I left the war I was a lost man, bored with life. I filled my time building this, my empire. A city of carnage.

John: ...and I'm going to fill my time tearing down your empire, I'll be seeing you soon Mr. Midnite.

John hangs up and takes a breath.

Ghost John: I think we found you a hobby.

John: Yeah, I guess.

Angel: What was it?

John: A lead. Birmingham.

Angel: Bloody hell, I need to BE there, now.

John: No, Summers. You stay here, have a nice cuppa tea and forget about this. I created this.

Angel: I HAVE to go, this is MY case.

John: ...and it's MY curse. Now put your feet up and relax knowing that I'll take care of this.

Angel: I'm GOING to Birmingham, John.

John pulls a cigarette from Angel's pocket and lights it. He turns and walks out of the questioning room.

Angel: I'm going to Birmingham!

John leaves.

Angel: I'M GOING TO BIRMINGHAM!

* * *

**A FEW HOURS LATER**

John Narration:

Well, life is good for the first time in a while. No, it's better than good, it's great. Why...?

John walks down the steps of Birmingham Central Station, blowing smoke and smiling. The gloomy sky pierces his eyes with dread, as a demon flies past. People, the desperate, the dying walk past. A tall building that towers over the rest lies in the skyline, it's a nightclub, another beacon of light.

John Narration:

...I have direction. I have motive. Birmingham, city of demons and drug dealers, I stare at the sky, it doesn't stare back, rude, angry, the sun clouded by death. It'll be a good life, serving time for my war crimes, slaying the monster that I've created. It's time to move on, an old door closed and now a new one opened... or some shit like that.

Papa Midnite wears a striking white suit, his top hat shadowing his face, which lies under it. He sits in his penthouse, he puts his hand out and a crystal ball appears in it. He smiles.

Midnite: Don't worry, he doesn't know you're working with me.

?: Good, I want it to be a surprise.

Midnite: And it will, it'll just be a matter of time, my young friend. Just you wait.

?: Oh, I'm waiting.

* * *

**NEXT- Constantine in Birmingham**


	4. Withdrawal Effects

John and Gemma still sit in the pub, surrounded by empty vessels, bloody bodies without souls. The furniture is blood-stained, the flies just starting to pour into the room, hovering over the bodies. John finishes the cigarette, dropping it and stamping the light out, he closes his eyes. Gemma, still petrified sits, her head in her hands. John stares at the bodies, feeling guilty.

John: Gemma, I'm sorry. I am so sorry.

John Narration:

I tell her I'm sorry, for all it's worth. Tell her that she can stay with me until she's able to get her life back in order. She declines. She's a good kid, but she knows. She knows it's my fault. She knows that my little game with Midnite caused the death of her mother but she hides it. For my sake. I never got to saw the body, I got to smell it though, the stench ran from the room, darting around it like a goddamn bullet. Oh, Cheryl. Why must Midnite drag the people I care about into our game? Is this your way of saying that you're winning? Is this your way of taunting me? Making me weaker? Well, you've succeeded, mate. You're winning, for now.

John sits on his sofa, smoke levitating through the air as John smokes away, put out cigarettes on the arm of the long cushioned seat. Two packets of cigarettes sit in the corner of the sofa, one empty all but for one and the other completely full. John's hair is messy, his face unshaven, stains are burned into his previously white shirt, his tie sustaining a few loose threads.

John Narration:

The funeral was hard. I couldn't bear to show my face, I just watched from a distance, I thought about using a hearing spell but... well... magic is what got me into this goddamn mess, isn't it? It rained, of course, but it had some sort of orangey tang to it. Midnite probably brought in a rain dancer and got them to cause a storm just to add salt to the wound.

Birmingham New Street Station is more crowded than usual, people buzzing pass and blurring together as they exit and enter the station. A man with pearl white hair steps off platform three, an evening train, his skin is pale, his skin cold.

His hair shadows his black eyes, a smile on his face. A suitcase hangs from his hand, it's heavy but the man holds it like a small pin, lifting it into the air without it pulling him down. He wears a large black trenchcoat, a dark red shirt and black trousers. Quickly, he heads out of the station, instantly noticing the demonic presence of the city, a demon flying over your head every minute. He keeps walking until a black car pulls over, the window winding down. The driver pokes his head out of the window.

Driver: Mr. Snow.

Mr. Snow: I'll walk, thanks.

Driver: Mr. Midnite would prefer if you came with us.

John leans over, his back aching, pulling open the door of his refrigerator and reaching out a beer can, making his way back to the sofa where empty beer cans pile on each other. He sits until a knock is heard at the door, to which he instantly tiptoes over to the peephole. A sort of smile forms on his face in reaction to his visitor. He, without thinking, swings open the door to find an attractive young woman at it. She's quite tall, a jacket over her and a white shirt. She wears tight black jeans and a top hat his held in her hand.

John: Zat.

Zatanna leaps to kiss John, and they pause in embrace for a few seconds.

John Narration:

A sudden taste of alcohol on her tongue, it passes onwards and I relish it. I need something to dampen the pain, she'll do just perfectly. She's more attractive than I remember, but that may just be the effects of separation and... y'know, falling off the edge. Damn, I really need to do something... maybe a nice quick exorcism.

Zatanna: John, I need your help.

John: I'll do it.

Zatanna: Really, just like...?

John:  **YES.**

The white haired man is led to a dark room in the centre of Birmingham, removing his sunglasses, he goes to sit on a chair in the middle of the room. It's on the opposite end of a desk, while an empty chair sits on the other side. Two armed guards mark the door, while another stands next to the white haired man. Out of the blue, black smoke explodes and forms in the shape of a human on the other chair, then dispersing, leaving Papa Midnite sitting there, wearing a vibrant white suit and hat. He smiles.

Midnite: Mr. Snow.

Snow: Midnite.

Midnite: It's good to see you again.

Snow: Well, it took a while to get rid of all that heat you gave me.

Midnite: Then why come here?

Snow: You're fucking loaded, man.

Midnite: He's high profile. There'll be more backlash than any other hit I've put you on. Are you sure you want him?

Snow: Sure.

Zatanna and John head out into the night, a growl and a smash heard around every corner, followed by a dying scream.

Zatanna: Do you know how much black magic I'm sensing right now?

John: Why do you think I'm here?

Zatanna: What's the story behind it?

John: We don't have a year at our disposal, luv.

Zatanna: Summarise.

Zatanna leads John to a car, it's a 1970's hot rod, black and a sort of green glow coming from it. John looks impressed, but gets in quickly, Zatanna getting into the driver's seat. Once in, the inside becomes similar to a chariot, while the outside remains a car.

John: Incognito automobiles. I heard they were rusty.

Zatanna: A friend bought them out.

John: Still hanging around with that rich prick? Oh, Mucous Membrane would be ashamed.

Zatanna: I'm not that punk kid anymore, and from what it looks like, neither are you.

John: I still like to stick it to some stuck up bastard... occasionally... a lot of the time. Where are we going?

Zatanna: London.

John: Well, it's going to be a mission getting there.

Zatanna: When you're saving the prime-minister, it IS a mission.

John: By the way, who the fuck voted for Boris Johnson!?

Zatanna: Not English, John.

John: But you know how much of an idiot he was. So, who are we looking for?

Zatanna: Juan Diego Snow. He uses a concentrated flame dust, almost like a steroid, inhales it and he's able to control fire, heat, anything.

John: So he takes a bump and gets fire powers.

Zatanna: N... fine. Can't you take anything seriously?

John: Not when Boris Johnson is involved. We got any back-story?

Zatanna: Someone in this city put a hit out on Johnson, something to do with him refusing to get a drug lord in Manchester off an armed robbery charge.

John: Government officials do that all the time, what's the deal?

Zatanna: He got all the people involved in the job charged. Some rookie is willing to testify against the big boss for an easier sentence. Once the big boss is axed, the whole empire falls flat on its face.

John: Damn, it's my job to do that.

Zatanna: Any idea who the big boss is?

John: Papa Midnite.

Zatanna: Didn't he sign an oath of neutrality?

John: We were all drafted into the war, I leave him for dead, he leaves, builds the empire, I come back, he wants to destroy my life. That's the basic jist of it.

Zatanna: Hmph... nothing like a psycho ex-boss to give you a warm welcome.

John Narration:

I don't tell her about Cheryl or Gemma, I tell her nothing. I can't ruin this, I need my fix. I need to do something that will help someone. I put on a lively front because that's what I need to be, that's what she needs me to be. What she doesn't know won't hurt me... or her.

Overpaid men in suits buzz past each other in a gigantic mansion that stands in the centre of London. All with drinks in their hands, they laugh and chatter, their voices sounding robotic and artificial, their smiles faked. It's a stale, stale room. Outside is the bleak London night, angry, dangerous, a city that will not yield. Atop the building, a combusting humanoid figure appears, it exploding and revealing Juan Diego Snow. Chuckling, he steps to a door towards the edge, opening it and menacingly walking through.

Back in Birmingham, all is silent in Zatanna's incognito automobile, John bored.

John: Y'know how far London is, right? We won't make it in time at this pace.

Zatanna: Shh... I need to concentrate.

John: Oh. It's one of THOSE. Y'know, if your friend bought out the company, could you at least get a better car? Y'know, automatic rather than manual?

Zatanna: I need to concentrate, John.

John: I would've thought he'd...

Zatanna: SHUT UP, JOHN!

An indigo portal instantly opens in the middle of the street, Zatanna's car shooting into it.

Zatanna: Well, next time I need to get somewhere fast, I'll just get you on the phone.

The two and the car exit the portal, coming out almost atop the clouds, within a millisecond they're falling with no reaction, right on top of the dinner party. They drop on top of the rooftop, landing softly with damage to the building or the car. Exiting, they rush to the door at the edge, sprinting down the stairs to the dinner party. They reach the bottom, John leaping to the door, almost knocking it down with the sheer amount of force applied. Entering the party, they find their selves in the middle of a storm of people, higher classed men who take joy in the suffering of others.

John Narration:

If I had my way, I'd damn them all to hell for an eternity.

Zatanna: We split up, find the guy.

John: Okay, when we find him...?

Zatanna: Improvise.

John: Well, I'm going to have a lot of fun with that. Got a photo or anything?

Zatanna passes John a photograph of Snow, John looks at it for a second and then places it in his coat pocket. While weaving through the crowd, he gets judging stares, his tacky coat, his stained shirt, his messy hair and tie stand out like a sore thumb among the almost over-tidy suits and dresses.

John Narration:

Yes, keep staring.

Zatanna: Hello, John... you there?

John: I don't like people establishing telepathic connections without my permission.

Zatanna: Any luck?

John: They all look the same.

Zatanna: Not many people have bleached white hair, especially in the category of "stuck up prick".

John: You haven't found him either, y'know.

Zatanna: I have a feeling that we'll know where he is once the screaming starts. Wow, normally you're the first to think the worst.

John: I still am.

Zatanna: John, I think I've found him.

Zatanna approaches a crowded table with a golden light reaching far above the people piling around it. Under the light, a constantly rising and falling fire, she rushes to the front of the crowd, finding Mr. Snow. Quickly, she picks up that a slightly overweight man with blonde hair stands next to her, chuckling away. Boris Johnson. Fast footsteps are heard behind her, John, looking rough and beaten as ever, reaching the empty slot next to Zatanna. Mr. Snow instantly notices him and begins to maniacally laugh, the fire in his hands growing.

Boris: Oh, Zatanna! I didn't know you were here!

Zatanna: ...and yet I am, Boris.

Boris: This is a... fellow magician... whatsyername? David Blaine?

Mr. Snow: Yes.

Boris: Yeah, we hired him... I think... maybe. Anyway, how are you these days?

Zatanna: Good, you want to... get a drink?

Boris: Uh... alright, then. *In Schwarzenegger voice* I'll be back.

Zatanna and Boris leave, John and Mr. Snow staring at each other.

Mr. Snow: Constantine.

John: Snow.

Mr. Snow: Please, call me Juan. So, John... does she know?

John: I'm here to stop you from killing the Prime minister, not answer your questions.

Mr. Snow: ...and how are you going to stop me?

John: I'm giving you a chance here, mate. Leave now because if you make a move on that man, I'm going to put you down.

Mr. Snow: Midnite told me you weren't a rather good magician. A bit of a fuck-up. No. He told me that you liked to sit back while your allies, gave their lives for their cause... for your cause.

John: ...or I might just axe you now.

Mr. Snow: Please, you wouldn't stand a chance. Now, excuse me. I'd like to speak with the good prime minister.

John: One. Move.

Mr. Snow rises from his seat, the crowd splitting at his departure. He heads toward Boris and Zatanna, smiling as the fire depletes from the palms of his hands. Lifting a drink, he stands next to the two, John following behind him. Snow, almost seemingly on purpose spills his drink on Boris's shirt, which doesn't really affect him.

Mr. Snow: Oh, sorry... how stupid of me.

Boris: No! It's fine! Really, it's o-kay!

Mr. Snow: Are you sure? I can pay for the shirt, if you'd like.

Boris: No, I've got plenty of spares! But I'll take the extra dosh if you're offering!

They both chuckle, Zatanna trying to smile but a look of danger tattooed on her face.

Boris: Oh, Anna! You look so worried!

Mr. Snow shoots fire onto the alcohol poured onto Boris's chest, setting him alight.

Zatanna: Tup tuo taht erif!

A burst of wind destroys the fire on Boris's chest, until Mr. Snow throws a fireball at Zatanna, knocking her on her back, barely conscious. John leaps forward, pressing a button on a watch on his arm, a large metal glove and shining sword growing on and in his hand. Screaming is heard as the guests begin to panic, running from wall to wall with no sense of direction, only survival. A fireball hurtles toward John, John deflecting it with his sword, while it absorbs the energy. Pointing the sword at Mr. Snow, he fires a blast of energy at him, which puts him back a few paces.

Mr. Snow: You know, Midnite told me how it felt when he stabbed your sister to death. Like victory he told me, like the first step to your defeat.

Zatanna: Cheryl?

Mr. Snow grabs a capsule from his pocket, holding it do his nose and inhaling the dust as he crushes it. All of a sudden, his body begins to combust, becoming a being of living fire. He cackles, shooting a whirlwind of fire in John's direction.

In reaction, John quickly kicks over a table and uses it as cover, while lifting his sword above the table, absorbing the heat energy. Mr. Snow stops, giving John the opportunity to shoot some more energy from his sword, the whirlwind of fire returning to Mr. Snow. Mr. Snow doesn't seem to be hurt, however, it clouds his vision, the only thing seen being the golden circular weave. John ends the whirlwind, giving Mr. Snow his vision back, only to see John's sword pierce his chest.

John: Feels like victory.

He draws his sword, Mr. Snow dropping to his knees and then his chest. Dead. The fire surrounding him disappearing. An awkward silence.

Zatanna: Why didn't you tell me about Cheryl?

John takes a deep breath, dropping the sword.

John: I'll catch the train back home, luv.

Zatanna: John...?

John walks away, leaving the room.

Zatanna: John!

* * *

**To be continued...**


End file.
